


Name For A Shady Business

by melissfiction



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: M/M, Rick hates time travel, Suicide Attempt, animal puns from squanchy and birdperson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25443214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melissfiction/pseuds/melissfiction
Summary: Stan and Ford spend their birthday apart with evil geniuses. It's a long day.
Relationships: Ford Pines/Stan Pines, Stan Pines/Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	Name For A Shady Business

The smoke rises in curls. Below, a galaxy glows. What a shame that he’s thinking in metaphors instead of experiencing the real thing. By nature, metaphors are fallacies; they bridge two ideas with unnecessary emotion for a rhetorical effect. He is not looking down at a galaxy, but rather, a city. Rick likes squinting at the scenery below, blurring the New York lights together, and imagining the swirls of indigo and pink and pure, pure gold in the city of Thanatoletum, where the air smelled of poppies and the night dew was sweeter than sugar. Though, there’s no concept of day and night there. The planet’s light source comes from three bioluminescent moons, all white. No star was close enough to define the parameters of a day. The three moons have different paths of orbit around the planet. When they align—Rick can’t help but simplify the concept to Earth terms—a “day” has passed. Gorgeous place. 

Downside is the fact that the city was known as the Euthanasia Capital. Thanatoletum’s slow-acting toxins lull idle lollygaggers into a deep sleep before sinking them into the deepest sleep that wasn’t a coma. The origin of the toxins are unknown, but endemic to the city. Of course, the locals are immune to it, so they charge tourists at the gates to rent watches that show how much time was left before coma. The cost varied depending on the species of the buyer, since different species had different amounts of time to wander, and the convenience of the watch, whether or not it was equipped with alarms to warn before or when it was too late to leave the city. It was one of the few cities that accepted all currencies and needed no passports. Needless to say, it was a nice place to visit, but Rick wouldn’t want to live there. 

The smoke was real, though. With the way the wind was blowing, it was right in his eyes, too. Rick didn’t mind indulging in secondhand smoking, every once in a while, since it was cheaper than buying himself an actual pack. He’s not sure why he’s too stingy for cigarettes, seeing as he manages his wallet well enough to set aside a budget for Earth alcohol. It’s not like he’s saving it for the good stuff, literally out of this world, because Earth money is as good as a penguin giving a pebble to a giraffe where he goes. The smoke made his eyes burn a little, but neither freeloading recreational drugs nor imagining past exploits is why he bothered to crawl out of a hotel window to get to a thin-railed balcony. 

The poor sap a balcony over needs a long stay at Thanatoletum. Rick was looking forward to a nice, normal, healthy sleep complete with both non-REM and REM cycles after one hundred and thirty-seven consecutive concerts. Squanchy thought it would be hilarious to schedule all the concerts in cities the Flesh Curtains didn’t want to include in their tour on a day that didn’t exist. It would’ve been understandable if he chose a day at the end of a month, since some had twenty-eight or twenty-nine or thirty or thirty-one days and Rick didn’t expect Squanchy to know that every other month had thirty-one days, but Squanchy thought _May 21st_ didn’t exist. He knew that May 20th and May 22nd existed, but not May 21st. Birdperson confessed to not knowing the logic behind Squanchy’s mistake, either. 

The rational course of action would’ve been to cancel all of them, but then Squanchy and Birdperson gave each other a look, a look of evil, and spouted racist but accurate bullshit about how, _of course_ , one hundred and thirty-seven concerts would put too much of a toll on a mere _human_ . Rick really hated aliens, sometimes. As a representative of his entire species, he reluctantly accepted the challenge. Hypocrites, those two were; Rick was the one who had to pull strings with other Ricks _and_ bribe Slow Mobius _and_ install a time-warping feature on his portal gun to make one hundred thirty-seven concerts physically possible _and then_ steal time crystals when they accidentally fractured time. At this point, he just wants to forget all sixty-four alternate memories he had of today, but some shitty nicotine-cougher decided to have the loudest panic attack Rick has ever witnessed. 

“ _It’ssofuckinghighkillmekillmekillmekillmekillme_ —why am I such a knucklehead? God, kill me! Kill me, kill me, just… _kill me!_ ” 

Rick couldn’t deny that he’d be a lot better off if God smote the idiot right then and there. From the babble, what he could pick out was a bad case of a fervent desire to die crossed with a paralyzing fear of heights. It was entertaining for the first few minutes until Rick realized that the guy wasn’t going to shut up any time soon. 

“W-Wh-What kind of _dumbass_ is suicidal enough to think of jumping but too acrophobic to do it?” Rick finally snaps. 

The dumbass stares wide-eyed at his own reflection in the window when he hears the extra voice. “I had a specific reason! I swear!” He holds his cigarette in a trembling hand. “But I don’t? But I did! And—I do... but then I didn’t?”

Rick rolls his eyes. “Over _here_ ,” he calls. “Th-There’s more people in the universe than your pathetic ass.” 

When the bastard whips around to his voice, Rick takes the opportunity to observe him a little closer. He’s nudging towards the thicker side, but a second chance at the gym could easily maintain the muscle he still has. His hair is handsomely unstyled, grown out naturally the way someone does when they get too invested in life to get a haircut. At the very least, the guy looks decent, though the white T-shirt, blue jeans, cigarette, and accent reminds Rick of a New Jersey greaser. 

“ _Is_ there?” he questions. Genuine curiosity twinkles in his eyes, brown but green with youth. His breathing is less erratic now that he’s distracted. “I’ve seen so much of me today, I’ve got no clue. I remember, like, sixty versions of myself from just today. I don’t know which of them is who I— _wait_ , didn’t I see you earlier today? Shit, no I didn’t. It was at a concert that I didn’t go to because I went somewhere else at noon. I went to lots of somewheres at every time, though...” 

Rick covers his Flesh Curtains crop top with his lab coat. “I’ve got _nooo_ clue what you’re on about, amigo...” His current outfit choice is a walking contradiction. Punk guitarists aren’t known for tinkering in labs, but, well, he’s a punk scientist with an agenda. Songs are universally notorious for getting stuck in people’s heads, after all. He just needed something close to a jacket before crawling into the cold. 

Still, it’s impressive how accurate this guy is. Sixty-something memories from someone who has no clue what could have possibly gone down means that there was something distinctly different between those memories, like living out sixty-something versions of the same day with sixty-something completely different plans. No wonder he’s so discombobulated. It’s only partially Rick’s fault; most people have a tendency to stick to the general outline of what they originally do in a day sixty-four times. The pathway should have been cemented as a constant in the dimension’s “plan.” Uncertainty with the slightest details is a variable delicate enough to split hypothetical timelines, but sixty-four different pathways in one dimension is something that happens with sixty-four different Ricks from sixty-four different dimensions. A dimension is like the interval between one and two. While it’s true that there are infinite numbers between one and two, it’s also true that the number three is not a possible choice. This principle, apparently, does not apply to the amateur smoker in front of Rick. No wonder time was so hard to fix. 

Rick hates time travel, he hates time travel, he hates time travel, he hates time travel, he hates time travel, he hates time travel, he hates time travel, he hates time travel, he hates time travel, he hates time travel, he hates time travel, he—

He reaches into his inner lab coat pocket and tosses the time-breaker a gun. “P-Problem solved. Next time, even though there obviously won’t be a next time for you, just… j-just overdose or something, okay? I personally recommend opiates. Last thing you get is a rush, it’s painless, and you just get shot up with Narcan if some asshole decides to resuscitate you. A gun is the next best thing.” The time-breaker stares at the gun quizzically, as if it’s a prop from a movie he couldn’t recall the title of. Rick smirks. “Did you—Did you think I was gonna go ‘you jump, I jump’ on you? This ain’t Titanic, homeskillet.” 

The time-breaker puts his finger over the trigger. The freezing metal is numbing in a lot of ways. “You mean like the ship?” 

“Like the _movie_ . W-What, you don’t remember that scene? With Leonardo diCaprio?” Rick doesn’t believe anyone _hasn’t_ heard of Titanic. It was a big deal at the theater he went to. Lots of gross couples. It was _okay_ , he supposes. 

“Uhh…” The time-breaker is in the dark about this. “Never heard of him, sorry. What year is that movie from? I’ve only seen the nineteen fifty-three version.” 

“It’s from the nineteen ninety— _aw, fuck_ .” The year is 1971. Rick watched _Titanic (1997)_ on a movie planet that transcends all timelines, and thus, has an endless collection of movies from every year and timeline. Rick broke time for the first time on purpose to catch a few films Squanchy recommended. Time-breaking always involves Squanchy, Rick now notices. He doesn’t think Leonardo diCaprio has even been born, yet. “N-Never mind, just shoot yourself.” 

The time-breaker doesn’t wait to be left alone. He instantly puts the gun to his heart and pulls the trigger. He waits a few seconds before he notices he’s not dead, yet. The hammer clicks as it goes back into place. Then, he points the gun _straight at Rick’s fucking face_ and shoots one-handed. Hammer goes back into place. There wasn’t a bullet in that slot. 

“H-H-H-Holy _shit_ , d-d-did you just try to fucking _shoot me?_ ” Rick stammers out. He has to be honest; he did _not_ expect that. He’s not judging, but this guy is fucking crazy. It’s always the time-breakers that pull this kind of shit. 

“It ain’t loaded, genius!” the guy snaps. “Was this a test? Did you think I would wuss out of this halfway through, like some Golden Gate Bridge jumper? Just ‘cause I don’t know why I’m killin’ myself doesn’t mean I won’t do it! I’m the only guy I can trust, apparently!” 

“W-W-Well, so- _rry_ that I don’t carry a fully-loaded gun with me! I-I’ve had a long day, okay? I expect _you_ , of all people, to know exactly how long of a day today was, you motherfucking punk-ass little bitch…” Rick clasps a hand over his chest. His heart rate just spiked a hundred more beats per minute. That was, by far, the most random chance at death he has ever had in his life. An alternate Rick probably just had a heart attack. Or was shot. If time was still broken, he would be dead for sure, he thinks. He’s got no clue, honestly. He hates time travel, he hates time travel, he hates time travel… “Y-You’re not even doing it right! Lemme come over, I’ll show you how it’s done, you stupid trigger-happy, tobacco-licking, acrophobic son of a…” Rick gets ready to crawl back through his window to get to his hotel room. 

“It’d be faster if you just hopped over to my balcony.” 

“No, fuck you! _Fuck you!_ Y-Y-You’d probably push me because you don’t even know if we’re high enough to die from falling! And by the way, we _are_. Good jumping height is about ten to fifteen stories up. 250 feet or higher on water.” 

So he takes the time to crawl back into his room, exit, lock his room, knock on the door just next to him, wait to be let in, crawl back out into the balcony, and take the gun back. He holds the gun to his own head. “Y-You’re supposed to shoot it at your head, that way it’s instant brain-death. F-Fun fact: the brain has no pain receptors. You could be awake during brain surgery.” Rick decides to pull the trigger on himself, just to be certain that his death wasn’t in this dimension’s blueprints. It’s the third slot out of six. Counting this one, there’s four slots left. He knows two bullets are left in the cylinder. It’s a fifty-fifty chance that he’ll blow his brains out and a one-hundred percent guarantee that if the time-breaker goes through with suicide as promised, two brains will be blown out. 

Click; hammer is back in place. Yeah, that’s what he thought.

“I didn’t know we were playing Russian Roulette,” the time-breaker teases. 

Rick hands the gun back. “It’s a bad thing to be uncertain. Even a tenth of a tenth percent chance of failure gets rocket missions aborted.” He appreciates the sense of humor. He needs to lighten up. The day got him all wound up, all on edge about all the problems time-traveling causes. Did he mention that he hates time travel? Because he _hates_ time travel. 

The time-breaker holds the gun to his head, as instructed, and pulls the trigger. Nothing. “Are you _certain_ there’s a bullet in this?” 

“I’m certain you’re a pain in the ass.” That’s a lie, though. Rick is smiling. He likes this guy a lot more than it’s safe to. This time-breaker is the right guy to end May 21st with. In fact, they should celebrate midnight… with a _bang_. 

He pulls up his sleeve to check his watch. He has three of them: one with a myriad of tiny buttons, one displaying one dot to represent a single, non-hypothetical timeline, and one with a monitor showing the different brain waves in his proximity. None of them tell the time. He wonders why it is only now that he realizes how convenient a regular watch would be. The problem would be adjusting it every time he entered a new time zone, but he’s a genius. It’ll be a piece of cake inventing a way around that dilemma. While he’s considering which watch to install the new feature on, he notices that the time-breaker’s brain waves are startlingly similar to his own. 

Inside the room, a door knob rattles. A fist pounds. “Open the door! You can’t run forever!” The new fellow’s voice booms authoritatively. 

Rick glares at the time-breaker. What little good mood he had mustered is now gone. “That better _not_ be the police.” 

“I’m about eighty-seven percent certain it’s not,” the time-breaker swears. 

The calculation is instant in Rick’s mind. Eight out of sixty-four alternate pathways could have pissed off the New York Police Department. He has a feeling that the time-breaker’s day was a lot more fun than his. 

It doesn’t take long for the lock to be picked. Some goon in a black fedora and yellow suit approaches them slowly, fists clenched, teeth bared. The time-breaker’s face elicits a Pavlovian response that sets the yellow suit fellow’s eyes on fire. Rick was usually aloof in regards to members of his own species, but he could tell the fellow was not one most people trifled with; the fellow was ready to chew someone to death. 

Rick is in too deep, now. “O-One more lesson…” He takes his gun back. “When you shoot someone, you gotta get a good grip. Two hands. A-And, _squeeze_ the trigger slowly…” He promptly demonstrates: raises the gun, holds it steady with both hands, shoots with dead-on accuracy between the eyes. The time-breaker—the pure, innocent fool gazes at Rick in awe. Rick takes the cigarette, too, and gets a long drag of it. He blows the smoke into his student’s face. “Class dismissed.” 

“You could’ve shot me and killed two birds with one stone.” 

Rick’s smile is back. This babe is a thinker. That’s hot. “Hardy-har-har,” he deadpans. “I’ve got another bullet left and the cosmos are smiling at us. It’s a one-hundred percent chance that you’ll be dead this time, full money-back guarantee.” 

“ _Oh?_ ” A slimy grin blooms. Curiosity is back. The fear of heights is gone, and so are the suicidal and homicidal tendencies. “Would a handsome, confident genius such as you be willing to wager a bet on that? You see, sir, I’m a lost, uncertain youngster and I’m not too sure if I can trust a dangerous stranger with my death.” 

Rick takes another long drag of the cigarette and blows the smoke into the so-called lost, uncertain youngster’s face again. He checks one of his watches for the time. Ah, right; he doesn’t have a regular watch. Geez, how could he have forgotten so soon? He really does need sleep. But while he’s looking, he sees that there’s only a single brainwave pattern present in the proximity. “I-I think we’re on the same wavelength here.” Literally. “How about this: if my recommended method does not give you your desired death, your refund will come in the form of a better life. But first...” He closes the gap between them and digs a hand deep into the other’s back pocket. “Tell me. W-Who am I talking to?” While his hand is there, he gets a good grope out of that ass. It was definitely a good one. Taut, yet malleable. Just the way he liked it. 

“Not a dead man, if that’s what you’re hoping.” The gun goes to his head, the trigger is squeezed, the hammer clicks back into place. “Stanley Pines.” 

Rick finds what he’s looking for—Lucky Bullet Number Two. “Y-You already know this, but I’m Rick Sanchez.” He hates how uncertain he is about how much of this scheme was planned. He checked out the same hotel room sixty-four times today. Stanley could’ve easily been there at any one of those times and remembered it. “I-I would think that I’d remember your pretty face if you were at one of my concerts, Stanley Pines,” he lies. 

Stanley’s attention is briefly diverted when a car lets out of a series of staccato honks below. Not so coincidentally, he clings to Rick a little closer. “No offense, but your music sounds kinda… unoriginal? I’ve never even heard of the Flesh Curtains before today, but as soon as I went to a concert, the songs sounded awfully familiar.” 

“Haha, I-I, uh, I know a few other musicians. We’ve got similar minds, y-y’know? Like, like convergent evolution.” He nudges Stanley backwards towards the railing. “Y-You understand that, right, Stanley Pines? You understand that today was just _really_ long? _Really_ repetitive?” His hand slips under Stanley’s shirt and rubs up along the sides. When Stan’s back hits the thin black rails, Rick grinds their hips together. 

A pleasured groan involuntarily escapes Stan’s throat. He can’t rip his eyes away from the ground. He’s powerless under the great wrath of Gravity and Falling. The weight of the situation, no, the weight of Rick against his body is dizzying. “I don’t know what covalent evolution is, is that important?” 

Rick “accidentally” drops the cigarette off the balcony. Stan watches it descend and imagines himself as the cigarette, idling in a flashback of his entire life before the sweet, sweet release of death. In hindsight, the bet was his worst idea yet. He doesn’t know what’s up with him and creating unnecessary risks for himself, other than that he has terrible impulse control. 

“ _Convergent_ evolution,” Rick corrects. He gently tilts Stanley’s face up by the chin towards him. He likes Stan’s eyes better when he can see his own reflection in them. Now he’s close enough to see that what green he saw earlier was actually greed for money. Rick needs to stop squinting for idealistic metaphors. “Did you know that two objects dropped at the same height and time, regardless of mass, reach the ground at the same time?” 

Stanley holds onto fistfuls of Rick’s lab coat for dear life and lets out a shaky breath. “Today was a long day,” he whispers, praying that he’s saying what Rick wants him to say. It’s back to square one: wanting to die but not at _this_ height. In fact, he thinks he’s back farther than that. He’s back to wasting his time with a guy up front who says “two plus two” and people in the back say “four.” “It was longer than Satan’s dick and fucked me over just as hard.” The friction in his pants is the only thing sobering him. He desperately bucks up his hips to meet Rick’s, thirsty for a fix to get him through the night. Fuck, no; he’s back farther than that. He’s back to summer vacation, biting his hand in one half of a disassembled bunk bed. But the ice-cold railing pressed into his back is light years away from timed tests and hesitant six fingers, so he goes along for the ride as long as it gets him farther away.

Rick brushes his lips against the shell of Stanley’s ear. “Convergent evolution is when similar conditions have similar results,” he whispers. 

Stanley swallows. His back is leaning far over the balcony railings and he’s praying for the big guy in the clouds to take control of the rails. He could feel the screws slowly loosening. “That’s… uh… _cool_ , I guess?” 

“Convergent evolution explains why some things are similar even though they’ve never been in contact with each other before, Stanley. Like two musicians with similar minds. They make similar music because they think the same way, Stanley. It’s _similar_ because the _points of origin_ were similar _,_ Stanley.” 

“Look, nerd, that’s fascinating and all, but we’ve kinda got something going on here,” Stanley said, gesturing to their hips. “If I wanted to be bored to death, I would’ve been my high school’s Valedictorian.” 

“Oh, Stanley, y-y-you're missing out on so much!” Ambitions based on social constructs set up by a standardized institution are petty in comparison to the big picture. Those are what compel people like Stan to tremble when they look down. It was much too humanly for Rick’s taste. He takes Stanley’s face in his hands and forces him to look up. “W-W-We’re a lot farther from the top than we are from the ground, y’know? Are you scared of _that?_ ”

Stanley doesn't think much of what he sees. It’s a void of black, a few sparkly white dots, and some clouds. He's more aware of how much of him is hanging off the rails. “The sky ain't gonna suck me up and swallow me, genius. Are we gonna fuck or are you just gonna give me a heart attack?”

Inevitably, Rick’s gaze lingers longingly on the constellations he can recognize. Stan, begrudgingly, is right. The astronomer who walks while lost in the heavens falls into a ditch on Earth. He's only 23 and he has yet to even invent a watch that could switch time zones based on his location. He was only, what, Stanley’s age when he perfected his portal gun and declared that to be his golden peak? And now this punk, a little less than half a decade younger than him, has him completely stumped on what lengths it takes for a human to interact with the universe. For Rick, it took a genius mind, alcohol, and a whole lot of stolen resources. For Stan, it comes down to being a weird, cosmic accident-on-purpose. 

“You wouldn't happen to be a twin, would you?” Rick hypothesizes. 

Stan knows right then and there that Rick isn't getting laid tonight. “Ugh, did you meet him at some dumb dinner party about atom composition or something?”

“Wild guess.” Rick has to admit—he _did_ sneak into a lecture about atom composition when he was younger. He also enjoyed it, but that's besides the point. There have been several theories floating around about the universal anomaly that is twins. It’s uncommon enough in general, but throughout multiple dimensions? The same pair of twins in one dimension is hard to find in others. Sometimes one dies at birth in a few dimensions or the older twin is an only child or both simply do not exist. It caused a lengthy discussion when Rick threw in the Japanese myth that twins were a reincarnated pair of lovers who committed double suicide. “Y-You wouldn't happen to be the younger twin, too, would you?”

“What's the big idea? One minute we’re playing Russian Roulette, next it's 21 Questions? Do you wanna take me out on a date, too, while you're at it? Serenade me under the moonlight before we make love on a bed of rose petals?”

Rick takes that as a yes. “I-I’ve gotta be straight-up with you, Stanley Pines…” His hands grip the rails on either side of Stanley, effectively pinning the younger man to his spot while he looked down. He understands what makes heights worthy of fear. Fear is a part of a survival instinct that acts up in the face of danger, even if someone’s brain chemicals want them to die. The will to live is programmed in their DNA, then they fumble around the world looking for meaning when there doesn't have to be one. He rests his head on Stanley’s shoulder and lets his eyes flutter shut for a few seconds. “I _am_ just a human. Humans need sleep.” 

Stanley swears he can feel Rick’s heartbeat against his chest. It's steadier than his, and strangely, reassuring. He looks up at the sky again and stares for a good minute until his brain can process how huge it is. It has him surrounded like an ocean of voidness, with nothing to grasp onto. “Long day, right?”

Rick laughs dryly. “Longer than Satan’s dick and fucked me over just as hard.”

* * *

Lights flick on. Inside, a tiny flame wavers. It is after a long night of sitting through material he swears he has learned before that Stanford returns to his dorm room. A buttercream-frosted cake with a single candle sits on a table, red icing wishing: “Happy Birthday Stanford.” Stanford’s roommate, bright-eyed and ambitious Fiddleford McGucket, stands behind the cake. He grins excitedly. This is an unexpected gesture that Stanford would have never anticipated his monotonous day would lead up to. In hindsight, he should have, but he was too busy suffering through the same cycles over and over to look forward to anything else. 

For someone with an IQ well over what’s considered genius, Stanford took an awful long time trying to rationalize the meaning of the situation. He stared wide-eyed until it clicked. _It’s their birthday today_. He’s ready to switch the lights back off and go for a long walk, but as a rational man, he couldn’t. Social constructs held him back. “This is—I don’t—Fiddleford, I’m flattered,” he manages to sputter out. “You didn’t have to do this.” He can’t begin to express how much he wishes Fiddleford didn’t do this. He approaches the cake and finds that his name on the cake, in Fiddleford’s notoriously neat and evenly-spaced print icing-writing, looks too big for some reason. It is the first birthday cake he has ever had that doesn’t have another name squished in. 

“Of _course_ I had to, Ford!” Fiddleford argues, under the assumption that modesty was all his roommate had packed behind his words. His banjo is leaning against a leg of the table, already tuned. “I know how homesick you’ve been, lately. Just a few days ago you were sulking over the sand in a playground because it reminded you of the Jersey shore. I understand. You miss your family, huh?” 

Stanford nods, numbly. Even with Fiddleford, he feels alone without an arm slung over his shoulder. He knows the cake is homemade. There could’ve been sprinkles or maybe even a second layer if Fiddleford had the money for it. The candle is a testament to their small budget, a mere glob of vanilla-scented candle wax stuck on a toothpick with a candle wick jabbed in the middle. Ever the problem-solver. Certainly tops the box of cake mix and unsigned Hallmark card Stanford got for Fiddleford’s birthday. 

“Aw, don’t be so glum! Today’s _your_ day, and nobody else’s!” Fiddleford pushes the cake towards him. Stanford feels tears welling up. “Make a wish!” 

How typical of Fiddleford to expect normalcy from him. Paradoxically, it makes Fiddleford an anomaly, too. Between him getting Ford high on secondhand weed smoke and covering the walls with sinister blueprints (death rays, giant homicidal robots, doomsday devices), he’s the guy in the middle of the yearbook that you never see or think of again after graduation until he invites you to his wedding. Stanford has no doubts that Fiddleford will eventually straighten himself out after college, find himself a nice woman, and live happily ever after in the American dream. Fiddleford is what their parents wanted for them. Stanford wants to know his secret. He wants to know how Fiddleford, the only other student on campus with an IQ rivalling his own, can blend in so well. He can even _bake_ . Anyone who wasn’t his roommate would never know what Fiddleford is because he never manifests any symptoms of being an anomaly. But he _is_ one, Stanford swears, because too much went over Fiddleford’s head for someone who designs robots when they’re high. 

Stanford would like to deliver normalcy, one day. Just… not today. He licks his fingers and pinches the flame out. All he wishes for is a nice, normal, healthy sleep complete with both non-REM and REM cycles after what felt like one-hundred and thirty-seven lectures. The flame sizzles between his fingers anticlimactically. Fiddleford claps anyway. 

“Haha, May 21st… That makes you a Gemini! You know, The Twins?”

Fiddleford cuts a big slice for the birthday boy. The slice happens to contain the first half of Stanford’s name: “Stan.” That’s the final straw. Stanford is reduced to a bawling mess in three seconds flat. 

“Oh, _Stanford_ ,” Fiddleford cooes sympathetically. He hurries around the table to take his roommate in his arms, hugging him with all the warmth of a mother. “I’m just too nice for my own good, aren’t I?” 

“I miss my brother,” Ford chokes out. Sobs are wracking throughout his body. Stanley used to hold his hand while he wiped his tears away and just talk about how good things would be when they got better. He talked an awful lot about the future for someone utterly terrified of it. 

Fiddleford rubs circles on Ford’s back. “I bet you’ll be as bright as a firefly to know that your brother sent you a card.” 

Ford pushes him away, wide-eyed. “He _what?_ ” He suddenly regrets wasting his wish on sleep. He wants to know how Stanley is doing, where he is, how much he still hates him, how much he still _loves_ him. Sleep could wait nineteen more years if Ford could get the answers to his questions now. 

Fiddleford disappears into the kitchenette to retrieve the envelope. Ford all but rips it apart, only to find a folded piece of lined paper with a sloppy crayon illustration of orange balloons. He reads aloud the note inside disappointedly, “Hap brith. From _Shermy_.” 

Fiddleford takes a look at the card. He’s genuinely impressed by Shermy’s craftsmanship. “Smart kid, just like his big brother! Most kids start writing when they’re about four. Shermy’s only two, right?” 

Stanford rubs his temples. He can feel a headache coming on. “Can we just, I don’t know, get high, or something?” Frankly, he’s surprised that the cake _doesn’t_ have marijuana. 

“I thought you’d never ask!” 

* * *

The best part about dreams, Rick thinks, is that 50% of it is forgotten five minutes after it ends. Mercutio brushed off dreams as “the children of an idle brain.” Philosophically, he is right. Scientifically, not. Activity of a dreaming brain resembles that of an awake one. Such cognitive activity is easier to bear asleep, where abstractions reign. Reality bears a piercing bluntness akin to a butcher’s knife. But after life, there’s nothing to wake up to. 

Five minutes after his dream, Rick wakes up to the memory of how _cursed, cursed May 21st_ ended (and something about a stained carpet, but that probably from his dream). After teaching a depressed acrophobic conman proper suicide techniques and shooting some goon, he collapsed in Stanley’s bed because he was too tired to even make the tedious journey back to his own room next door. He almost felt bad for leaving Stan with blue balls, so he promised him a blowjob in the morning, but Stan was also annoyed by another issue, which was… oh, the stained carpet. Rick clearly recalls Stanley deducing that he had hydrogen peroxide in his room because he wears a lab coat. He actually does, in a first aid kit, but that doesn’t justify the generalization. It’s not like he wears the lab coat everywhere. He just grabbed it to keep warm. What kind of pretentious geek wears a lab coat everywhere, anyway? Not Rick Sanchez, that’s for sure. 

What he doesn’t remember is leaving the curtains wide open. The blinding rays of light are more bearable under the covers, if not for the heat. He supposes he doesn’t mind getting out of bed as long as he gets a plate full of whatever is sizzling in the kitchenette. Another thing he doesn’t remember is leaving his portal gun on the nightstand. It should be in his own room, in… oh, plain sight where anyone can swipe it. The sacrifices Rick makes for sleep. 

On the bright side, the body is gone and most of the blood has been removed from the carpet. Stanley is singing an improvised song about making breakfast while he flips a pancake. It’s funny how exposed he is in that moment, mumbling to himself about how a career in music was never a path he intended to go into. It’s easier to see more of a person when they think nobody’s watching. He’s awfully cheerful for someone who tried to commit suicide just last night, but then again, it was never clear _why_ he wanted to die when he had such a fiery will to survive. 

Rick snuck up behind Stanley and wrapped his arms around him. “Mornin’, babe.” 

Stanley let out a curse in surprise. He nearly flipped the pancake onto the floor. As soon as he registered that his flight-or-fight response was unnecessary, he let out a sigh of relief. “I ain’t nobody’s babe, mister.” 

Rick guesses that Stan just got out of a bad relationship. Usually, he strictly avoids emotional baggage, but a rule isn’t a rule without exceptions. “You’re a good boy, Stanley. I didn’t expect you to clean up the mess I left behind. I-I thought it was too much to ask of you...” He holds Stan tight in his arms. Stan melts into the embrace slightly, but is still wary enough to recoil any second. Rick loosens his hold accordingly. “Turn around, I-I’ll give you something for your trouble.” 

After Stanley finally complies, Rick kisses him. It’s long and slow, like the fluid wisps of cigarette smoke, and it entrances Stanley the same way. Stan sees embers behind his eyes while Rick’s hands travel up his shirt, ready to burst into a wildfire if fanned. But Rick deliberately drags it out, like a last smoke before quitting, withdrawing, and relapsing. He feels awkward and hypersensitive, like it’s his first kiss all over again and he’s only mimicking what he sees in the movies. Stanley likes it. God, he _loves_ the way Rick presses up against him and lazily brushes their tongues against each other. He kisses back with a fervor he hasn’t felt since he said the big three words to Carla or… Actually, he doesn’t recall ever saying those words to his brother, except _maybe_ when they were kids. He doesn’t remember hearing them from Stanford, either. 

It’s easy to lose himself to the kiss. Rick and Stanley are opposite charges, attracted to each other by nature, clinging to each other for balance. Stan feels electricity coursing through his veins like a defibrillator is bringing him back to life, tastes warm bitterness, probably alcohol on his lips, smells.... a burning pancake. 

Rick smells it too, because he instantly pulls away from Stan to turn the fire off. Then, he backhand-slaps Stanley. “Don’t fucking touch my portal gun,” Rick warns conclusively. He scrapes the slightly-blackened pancake onto the stack of fluffier ones next to the stove and it’s implied that the discussion ends there. 

Stanley gets it; it’s the classic carrot and stick system. In this case, it’s a kiss and a slap. He can’t deny that both are well-deserved in this case, but he’s not one to be suppressed so easily. “Come on, you left it out in the open. That’s basically an invitation for theft.” He holds the side of his face gently. He’s damn lucky his jaw isn’t dislocated. “I didn’t skip town with it, though! Do you know how much money a void-shooter could make? I mean, just the ability to dispose of bodies so easily is extremely useful for my work.” 

Rick serves two pancakes per plate of scrambled eggs and bacon already waiting on the table. The burnt pancake goes to Stanley. “C’mere, then. I’ll ‘thank’ you for not skipping town with my portal gun.” For the first time, he notices the bags of groceries on a chair. Other than basic toiletries and butter and syrup, it’s all non-perishable foods. “Fuck, did you take my wallet, too?” Rick is feeling extra “grateful” today. 

Stanley takes out the butter and syrup and takes the liberty of topping Rick’s pancakes for him. “It’s from the guy that was after me. Did you want his suit? I think it’s a better fit on you than me.”

Rick rolls his eyes. Sheesh, Stanley really _is_ a lowlife criminal. At least he’s a good cook. The bacon is crisp and crunchy, just the way he likes it. “I don’t want a bloody suit.” 

“Good. I already sold it.” 

_Ugh._ Rick likes Stanley Pines a _lot_ more than it’s safe to. He looks Stanley up and down. “W-What the fuck are you supposed to be? A-Are you, like, the evil twin? The devil? An interdimensional mind demon?”

Stanley flashes a knowing grin. “I’m flattered that you think so highly of me, but I’m just another guy trying to survive in this great American asylum.” 

Rick narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Uh-huh,” he says dismissively. “Likable guy with weird synchronizing brainwaves breaks time, tries to kill me, rigs a bet, uses my portal gun, then tries to kiss up to me with a nice breakfast. T-Totally innocent.” 

Stanley shrugs. (He doesn’t understand the first part, but there was a lot he didn’t understand about brainiacs.) “I mean, I could try to make off with it now, but that wouldn’t be fun. I was, uh, kinda curious about how it worked, actually…” 

Rick glances down at his brainwave-displaying watch, which told him their brainwaves were still in sync, then up at a sheepish Stanley. He could believe that Stan wasn’t an undercover agent for the Galactic Federation and that Stan wouldn’t patent and mass-produce his portal guns _yet_. There’s a reason why the thread of trust between them exists. It could either be as simple as dumb luck or more convoluted than the unwritten laws of the multiverse. “I-I dunno, Stanley. I-It’s some pretty boring stuff. Bunch of quantum mechanics and whatnot. I don’t think a guy like you would be interested in such hardcore science.” 

“Heh. You’re right.” Stanley remembers all the boring nerd lectures his twin used to torture him with before he was kicked out. He can vaguely recall some terms—string theory, the Copernican principle, grand unified theory—but he never cared enough to memorize the gist of anything Stanford spewed. Maybe that was his mistake, like how he never cared enough to tell Stanford that he loved him. It never had to be extreme. He didn’t have to take detailed notes or profess his dying love under the pouring rain. He could’ve just listened every once in a while, kissed Ford a little gentler sometimes, tried to understand his own twin brother a little better. “My brother just really loved that kind of stuff, you know? I just don’t get what could be so exciting about the many-worlds interpretation or whatever.” 

If Stanley thinks Stanford is bad about lengthy lectures, then Rick is Stanford on straight-up caffeine, steroids, cocaine, and Ecstasy all in one. 

* * *

If Stanford thinks Stanley is bad about escapist ambition, then Fiddleford is Stanley on straight-up caffeine, steroids, cocaine, and Ecstasy all in one. Not to mention marijuana. 

Unbeknownst to Stan, Ford is a lot less scientific and a lot more nonsensical when he’s on drugs. After he comes down from his high, he wakes up on a pile of blueprints for a new interface of interconnected information programmed by complex algorithms, portable computers that could store thousands upon thousands of gigabytes, an entirely new mode of instant communication that has the potential to bridge the world closer than ever before—impossible, mathematically infeasible _baloney._ Fiddleford must have given Stanford some _really_ good stuff if it was able to lower his IQ a hundred points to think bringing about a new era in the world, a goddamned Digital Revolution, could reform the economy. Why, it was a scheme as pragmatic as world domination. 

Though, it’s the same reason why Stanford hates hearing about his roommate’s hairbrained digital revolution scheme that he likes listening. The prospect, even if unattainable, excites him. Last night, he called Fiddleford a genius. He hasn’t craved a fantasy so precarious since Stanley’s dream of sailing around the world looking for treasure. He’s desperate to fill the void in his heart. The hypotheticals tortured him every time he wanted to say goodnight to an empty bed. If only he filled him with sweet nothings every once in a while, sat on the swing next to him while he watched the sunset sometimes, indulged Stanley a little more...

No.

He should have at least had the decency to tell Stanley that treasure-hunting wasn’t practical. Fiddleford is the same way; damned be Stanford if he made the same mistake twice. There’s no foundation to support the digital infrastructure, no money, no resources, no backup, and, most obviously, no substance to any of the outlines Fiddleford sketched last night. It’s idea after suggestion after ambition. A claim without evidence is as good as a fallacy. Goodness, what the hell was Fiddleford on about with a “network of networks”? 

Stanford gathers an armful of blueprints and dumps them in the trash. Where they belong. 

* * *

Rick is gold and he speaks of the universe like it’s worth more than gold, like it’s the climactic nuclear bomb Nixon is waiting for and the forbidden fruit dangling a branch too high. Stanley understands every word of it at a capacity he has never experienced before. The many-worlds theory (riveting, reviving, religious) is no dreamt-up accident. Rather, it is law. It is principle. It is gospel. It comes at Stanley faster than the speed of light (299,792,458 miles per second, Stanley learns), yet is absorbed at an equal, if not faster, rate. All the while, he’s washing dishes while Rick is tipping his chair back at the kitchen table. 

Rick’s clarity lies in the honesty he presents the facts with. He does not water down concepts with simplified metaphors that misrepresent what reverence is owed to the truth. Stanley does not once feel the need to reach for a dictionary―all the meaning he seeks is articulated in body language. Rick’s a hot mess all the way through, stuttering worse than a stubborn car engine and throwing around Stanley’s name as if it’s the only one he knows. Dear God, it’s so clear that Stanley feels _converted._

It’s not even half-past nine, yet uneasiness is already bubbling in the pits of Stan’s guts from the weight of the revelations. Nothing matters. The strange part is the juxtaposing rush of relief coursing through his veins―it makes so, so, so much sense. For once in his life, Stanley is right. Nothing matters. The underlying suspicion, Stan thinks, has always been there since he was born. After all, no moralistic force persuaded him not to misbehave for laughs, fight for vengeance, kiss for fun, or steal for survival. Society calls him ignorant, but is he not the one most aware of the fragility of social constructs as one who breaks them on a daily basis? 

“The universe doesn’t care, Stanley!” Rick stops teasing gravity and lets his chair settle back on the tiles safely. “Th-That’s the b-best―the greatest comfort anyone can ever have in the great American asylum you try so hard to survive in. D-Diving into the universal wavefunction, those fundamental entities which plague us so vehemently under the relative state of…”

It is an injustice, a goddamned crime, to compare Rick to Stanford. Stanley wonders why it is only now, after dropping out of high school and being kicked out of his house and losing his other half, that the pieces fit. He doesn’t necessarily comprehend each individual piece, but he doesn’t need to if he can at least catch a glimpse of the big picture. 

“So the many-worlds interpretation means that many worlds exist but don’t affect each other?” Stanley clarifies. 

For the first time in his life, Rick is dumbstruck. “D… Did you _just_ realize that, Stanley?” he asks slowly. 

“Uhh…” Stanley wishes the answer was no. He pretends to be extremely invested in polishing a plate before he admits the truth. “Yes.” 

“W… W-Were you just thinking about that the entire time, or―” 

“―I mean, I was listening, but that’s what that all adds up to, right?”

Rick shows no indication of irritation or condescension. Just confused curiosity. Stanford had a similar look when Stanley corrected him on a math test problem he was cheating off of, once. The feeling is surface-level, as if to say, “Oh, silly mistake.” Stanley can’t figure out the source of Rick’s astonishment, though. The many-worlds interpretation _does_ interpret that there are many worlds, after all. Stan gets it now, and also why it’s interesting. End of discussion, is it not?

“I’m _slow,_ ” Stanley explains, because, apparently, that wasn’t obvious enough. 

“Uh, d- _duh-doi_ , Stanley. I’m just appalled by how much standardized education has rotted your mind.”

Stanley shrugs. “I dropped out of high school, if that’s what you’re asking.” He dries his hands on his pants as soon as he’s completely done washing and drying the dishes. 

“G-Good! Th-The education system doesn’t teach anything _real._ It mass-produces idiots, Stanley, a-and they’ll crucify creativity on a cross of propaganda! D-Do you actually think ducking under a newspaper can save you from a nuclear bomb? I-I-It’s because of institutions of manufactured boxes instead of spectrums! It’s because of school! It’s because of the government! _This_ is the way the world ends―not with a whimper, but a bang. A literal, capitalistic, genocidal bang!”

“Uh…” Stanley’s not sure how they transitioned to mutually assured destruction so quickly, but, as always, he rolls with the punches. “So you dropped out, too?”

Rick crosses his arms and slumps into his chair. “I was never enrolled,” he grumbles begrudgingly. 

Stanley blinks. “Seriously? Not ever?” 

Rick curls into himself a little tighter. 

“Not even preschool or kindergarten? Nothing?”

“I-I was never interested in school, anyway! I-I-I’m not going to waste time and money on a piece of paper that tells me what to do with my life, I’m not a set of numbers in a―”

“― _Woah, woah, woah_ , I didn’t mean anything bad!” Stanley rushes to Rick’s side and lays a hand on his shoulder. “It’s so cool that you’re a hell of a genius all on your own. You’re probably the smartest guy in the world!”

“I _am_.”

Stanley laughs. “Exactly!” He squeezes Rick’s shoulder. “You’re a smart guy, Rick.”

“Fuck off, Stanley.” Rick doesn’t brush away Stanley’s hand, though. He doesn’t stop Stan from rubbing circles on his back, either. “I’m not an insecure teenager like you. I-I’ve got bigger fish to fry.” 

“Bigger than the war in ‘Nam?”

“Th-That’s fucking microscopic to me, Stanley. There’s so, so much―”

Stanley leans in to whisper in Rick’s ear. “You still owe me a blowjob, on top of all that.”

It’s not like Rick could put off Stanley’s horniness forever. 

* * *

“Try not to contemplate suicide while you’re sucking me off, I guess?” Stanley awkwardly advises while Rick is unbuckling his belt. The whole experience is exactly that: awkward, depressing, and more of a distraction to pass the time. He’s not used to clandestine motel room affairs with troubled geniuses and it’s worse that the best reference he has is being fingered by his twin brother while he studied for his Calculus final, which was… a lot more disappointing than it sounded. Stanley ended up jerking himself just to get out of his brother’s hair. Maybe he should’ve asked for the blowjob later. He has no clue how to distract Rick properly. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. In fact, please _don’t_ if you don’t want to. It’s kind of a turn-off.” He watches Rick tug off his pants and boxers in one go. He looks away now that his cock is exposed. God, this is awkward as hell. 

“Oh, i-is my neurodivergent mouth not good enough to get off in? D-Do I not have enough experience roofying girls after prom?” Rick sits Stanley down on the edge of the unmade bed and drops to his knees. 

Stanley rolls his eyes. “See, now _that’s_ a turn-off.” Even so, he bites his lip when Rick licks a trail up the underside of his cock. It doesn’t take long for him to be fully hard, but then again, he’s raging with teenage hormones.

“A-Any requests? You were really ready-to-go last night, Stanley. C-Could’ve sworn you were gonna cum in your pants right then and there, and it would’ve been so fuckin’ hot…” Rick took his time with suckling just the tip of the head, swirling his tongue around and tasting the pearls of pre-cum that were already leaking. Stanley lets out a shaky breath. “I was so exhausted, though, Stanley. Did you know that I was technically up for two and a half days straight? But I think you need this more than me, s-so feel free to let go.”

“I dunno, the dirty talk is pretty hot…”

Rick spreads Stanley’s legs farther apart and rubs his hands along his thighs. “Oh yeah? Y-You like hearing about how much of a needy slut you are?” He bites and suckles on a spot in Stan’s inner thigh. Rick wants to leave physical evidence for Stanley to remember this. With the way Stan is whining already, Rick is certain forgetting won’t be an option any time soon. He bites harder. He had a feeling Stan was a bit of a masochist for putting up with him. “Y-Y’know, I usually don’t kiss before I blow. I’ll kiss you more if you’re a good boy.” Rick kisses up his length to emphasize his point, occasionally licking or nipping at certain parts. 

Stanley moans. “R… Really?” he asks hopefully. The white sheets are balled in his fists. 

“Yeah. Really.” Rick could _cry_ at how cute Stanley’s naïvety is. He jerks Stanley off at a slow pace as a warm-up. “I-I’m not gonna let you go so easily, Pines. We’ve got the same brainwaves. D-Do you know what that means?”

“I don’t even know what a brainwave is.”

“I-It’s like a universal signature, like a fingerprint, except they’re waves that come from your brain. Your brainwaves synced up with mine last night. That’s not supposed to happen.”

“I thought I said to talk dirty, not nerdy.” 

“But Stanley, you crushed the Universal Brainwave Theory! Th-That’s like disproving the theory of evolution!”

“I don't even know what the Universal Brainwave Theory is.”

“Brainwaves are universally used for identification. It's also a common belief that they’re based on intelligence. But if two different people can have the same brainwave, then the theory is busted, unless there's some weird exception.”

“Can I at least ride you if you're going to talk about nerd shit?”

“W-Whatever you want, Stanley!” Rick obliges. The cogs in his brain are turning faster than he can slip out of his skin-tight jeans. He lays down on the bed while Stanley assesses the package. 

Stanley is in awe for a good ten seconds. “Holy shit, Rick, you’re fucking _huge.”_ The longer he stares, the more excited he is to take Rick’s impressive length inside of him. Yet, with eagerness came trepidation at the thought of having every inch inside of him. It’s been, what, months since the last time he had a cock up his ass? That’s not counting the one-night stands he never told Stanford about. Or the nights he doesn’t remember the next morning. Or the fact that, sometimes, when there’s no other way to pass the time that he can think of, he fingers himself alone in the backseat of his car at a rest stop… 

Maybe he should start charging. For Rick, though, this one’s on the house. He pushes himself down slowly and lets his eyes flutter shut. 

“Fuck me however you want, Stanley. You’re one of a kind, Stanley. Y-You fucking… fucking, _ah shit_ , deserve it,” Rick encourages. 

Stanley opens his eyes. If he’s going to be honest with himself, he _was_ planning on pretending that Stanford was under him while Rick went on about collapsed waves or some shit. That’s a bit difficult if Rick is going to fluff him up like that. He slams himself down on Rick’s cock all at once, just to feel the stinging pain of it. “For what, again?” 

Rick places his hands on Stan’s hips and thrusts into him. “For being the weirdest anomaly this miserable planet has to offer.” 

Stan moans out in surprise. “Oh God, Rick!” he whines. He grinds down to feel that same sweet spot be rubbed at again, then begins a steady space. “Y… You think so?” He groans when Rick pinches his ass and slaps it hard. 

By now, Rick has already figured out what gets the insecure teenager going. His hands rub circles on Stanley’s thighs. “I can’t spare a-all th-th-the— _holy fuck, go harder_ —details, but there’s a lot you can do for me.” 

Stanley goes faster the closer to release he is. All the while, he’s groaning and letting out small noises and cursing at how much he absolutely needs this. “Oh my God, you’re so huge, Rick, you’re so fucking huge inside of me…”

“So, uh, like I said before, it’s plain motherfucking never been heard of that two different people have the same brainwave pattern unless they’re some kind of mind demon. I’ve never actually come across one before, mostly because they tend to exist in nightmare dimensions, which I don’t have access to. I-It all sounds like Illuminati-fairytale-supernatural-pentagram bullshit, anyway, s-so screw that, y’know? I’m a man of science, I can make things happen myself…” 

Stanley could barely hear Rick over himself, but he manages to get the gist of whatever Rick is blabbering about to have a decent conversation. “Men of science can’t like make-believe stuff?” 

“I-It’s technically _not_ make-believe, but fuck that shit, anyway. That’s not my p-preferred field of study. I don’t know shit about it because I don’t care, Stanley, so don’t ask me about mind demons. Th-The fucking point is that you’re not one, as shady as you are. Furthermore, your brainwave pattern _fluctuates_ , as if you’ve got no real identity.” 

As much as Stanley would like to tune this out, it was actually kind of interesting. “I don’t get what’s so weird about that if brainwaves are linked to smartness. I mean, if we’re constantly learning something every day, shouldn’t it always be changing?” 

“I-I _know_ , smart guy. The sum doesn’t add up. Technically all babies should have the same brainwave if they’re fresh out of the womb. I’ve been thinking about doing some more field studies about this phenomenon now that—” 

The doorknob rattles, then they hear knocking. Fuck, Rick knows it’s Squanchy and Birdperson. Only Birdperson has so little sense of boundaries to try to enter before knocking and only Squanchy is experienced enough to develop a sense for brainwaves to know that Rick is in the wrong room. 

Rick groans, and it’s not because Stanley has the best ass he’s ever had in a while. “Fuck off!” he yells. 

The doorknob only rattles more. “Rick Sanchez, I am currently picking the lock with a piece of metal I found outside the door because there is a matter of utmost urgency you must be informed of,” Birdperson announces.

Rick rolls his eyes. The last time he took so-called utmost urgencies seriously, he sacrificed the fifth largest known star system for a hairball. Aliens had a wide range of emergencies that all happened to fit under the same category of major importance. “I don’t give a fuck! I’m busy!” 

Squanchy bangs on the door. “Birdperson isn’t squanching around, Sanchez! The universe doesn’t exactly revolve around your delicate human squanch-ibilities.” 

Stanley starts moaning louder as he nears climax.

“Ugh, okay, fuck, _fine_ . Do _not_ come in. J-Just, fuck, just gimme a sec!” Rick starts jerking off Stanley fast to at least get one of them off before his stupid rude, xenophobic, racist, stereotyping alien friends burst in. What actually occurs is that Stanley is cumming into his hand and screaming his name out in ecstasy at the exact moment when Birdperson is done picking the lock. Stanley, the idiot who couldn’t hear anything over his own slutty moans, is still riding out his orgasm in Rick’s palm while Birdperson and Squanchy glare at the activity that had Rick so occupied, as if they were so “above” such desires. 

Rick doesn’t even know why he continues to try, anymore. “Fucking hell, I told you guys to gimme a sec! I know you guys know that that’s an idiom, I-I’ve fucking heard you guys say it before.” 

Squanchy and Birdperson give each other a look, like _they’re_ annoyed by _him_. Squanchy shrugs. “Sheesh, Sanchez, we’re not prudes. We don’t care if you squanch with someone of your own squanch, but just make sure you’re listening to what we have to squanch.” 

Rick looks up at Stanley. Somehow, he’s still oblivious to the mangled cat and literal bird-person behind him in his post-orgasmic bliss. If he was lucky, Stanley would pass out and spare him the trouble of explaining (cough cough, covering up, cough cough) why two aliens just walked in on him getting laid. “Lee, babe, I’ve got s-some, some stuff to take care of,” he whispers. 

Lo and behold, Stan is still hard and he starts grinding down on Rick again. “I don’t mind,” he says resolutely. 

“Oh my fucking—okay, s- _sure!_ ” Rick yells. He throws his hands up in surrender. “Let’s fuck in front of prejudiced, self-grooming, voyeuristic alien supremacists! I-I-I bet they’re fucking _tickled_ by the sight of you taking my big cock up your ass like the exhibitionistic human whore you are!”

Birdperson turns around. “I notice that your feathers are ruffled by this predicament, so I will respect your privacy.” He expects Squanchy to follow suit and, reluctantly, Squanchy does. “Fornificate while you still can, Rick Sanchez. We will have to switch dimensions soon due to the attention we’ve attracted from the Galactic Federation and the fourth dimension.”

Rick isn't surprised. A million Ricks time travelling in one dimension tends to turn a few heads. “Lee, _seriously,_ I need to take care of this.” He hates time travel, he hates time travel, he hates time travel, he hates time travel…

Stan finally eases himself off of Rick. He sighs. “Laaame,” he laments while he gets his clothes back on properly.

“By the way, Stanley is coming with us,” Rick tells Squanchy and Birdperson. He tugs his boxers and pants back on. 

Squanchy whips around, abandoning what little politeness he had. “What the _squanch?_ You’re bringing a brainwave amplifier with you while we’re trying to tail it? You’ve gotta be kitten me.” 

Birdperson continues to face away from the humans. “I agree. That idea is egg-regious.” 

“Stop using fucking animal puns! M-Maybe _this_ is why I want someone from my own shitty species to tag along! Because of shit like this!” 

Stan snickers. “Yeah. Sounds _clawful_.” 

Because the pun applies to both birds and cats, the aliens immediately approve of Stan. “ _The human can come,_ ” they say together. 

Sometimes Rick thinks of switching places with another Rick, but one that never started a shitty rock band with two shitty aliens. He could do it any time and the temptation only got higher every day. Sadly, today isn’t the day to put that plan into action. He grabs his portal gun and checks the battery. Of course it’s out of juice. He forgot to charge it after the crazy day that was May 21st. It’s like the only law that Rick can follow is Murphy’s. “We gotta skip town.” 

Squanchy face-pawed. “Portal gun dead _again?_ ”

Rick adds portable portal gun charger to his to-do list of future inventions. 

  
  



End file.
